How does a story end? –Then it does end? To tell the truth, no one–except for the others–ever knows anything about it; a kind of innocence conceals at the end of this thing conceived, asserted, lived according to eternity. However a story unfolds, whether it ends or moves into another realm, in any case I never see it disappear: a story which is over and done with passes into another world like a ship into space, lights no longer winking: emotions that once echoed loudly, now is entirely without resonance (much like love which never disappears when and how we expect). I myself cannot construct a story to the end: I am its poet (its bard) only for the beginning; the end belongs to others; it is up to them to write the fiction, the external, mythic narrative.

Language is a skin: I rub my language against the other. It is as if I had words instead of fingers, or fingers at the tip of my words.

I cannot write myself.  Even as I  enter into writing, the writing would take the wind out of my sails, would render me null and void–futile; a gradual dilapidation would occur.

These are the musings and first forays of a storyteller, a memoirist, a lyricist into the digital world of creative writing. On the one hand, this is saying nothing; on the other, it is saying too much: impossible to adjust. My expressive needs to oscillate between the mild little haiku summarizing a huge situation, and a great flood of banalities. I am both too big and too weak for writing: I am alongside it, for writing is always dense, violent, indifferent to the infantile ego which solicits it.


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